The ghosts that come at night
by Sachita
Summary: The ghosts only come at nighttime, after all. Athos/Milady


**The ghosts that come at night**

No matter how much she hates him – yes, it is pure hatred and there is nothing else, no matter how much her treacherous heart still jumps in her chest when she catches a glimpse of him – she is never misinformed about what he is doing. She know what mission he is currently on, what company he is in, which tavern he visits to get as drunk as he can in order to forget about her.

But her flower is the forget-me-not for good reason she thinks sometimes in dark satisfaction. He will never forget about her, as long as they both live.

So she keeps on watching from the shadows, every spare second that she has. It might be called an obsession. It might be mistaken for worry. She does not care about that; she only knows that she has to keep on watching over him. Without him, the hatred will not be there any longer. Without him there is no reason to feel anything anymore. The hatred is the only thing burning deeply inside of her and it is the only thing keeping her alive. The hatred makes her imagine choking the life out of him just as he had choked it once out of her – and maybe they would finally both be dead for good then, dead and gone, and she wonders if it would not be for the better.

She tries to get her revenge on him from time to time – but always she is relieved when her plans are thwarted. After all she knows that she would die with him were he truly to die one day.

Sometimes, when the nights are dark and deep and one of his musketeer brothers has carried him home because he is too drunk to walk himself, she lets herself in his house. She does not do anything to harm him. She just becomes part of these dark, deep nights and sits on the window sill to watch him sleep. But as much as she hates herself come the light of early morning, she does not imagine killing him in those lonely deep nights. Instead she imagines how it would feel to lie once more in his arms and to kiss those lips she used to kiss oh so many times. She imagines how it would feel to be once more loved by him.

And oh, those times are much worse than those when the hatred burns deep inside of her, because the thought of him truly loving her once more as he has innocently done once hurts her more deeply than she thought herself still able to and she has to fight back an anguished gasp every time it happens. Still, she keeps coming back from time to time to watch him sleeping and to hurt herself some more. She wonders bitterly what she is addicted to – is it him or is that hurt she keeps coming back to? Sometimes she feels like a mere ghost, only alive because of a memory.

One night, when she has despite better reason come back to watch him sleeping, he suddenly comes awake and then lies there very still, watching her through the darkness.

"Anne," he breathes and the sound of his voice makes her very nearly lose herself.

"I hate you," she hisses fiercely, trying to conjure up all the hatred she can muster.

"Am I dreaming?" he asks wonderingly and there is painful, sweet hope in his voice.

She stays silent and watches him. He tries to sit up and sways in his drunken stupor.

"You are drunk," she says bitterly. "Of course you are dreaming."

He falls back heavily and stares at her. There is a broken look in his eyes. "Such a beautiful dream," he whispers.

"Go back to sleep, Olivier," she commands and as much as she tries, there is no hatred in her voice.

"Will you come closer?" he asks plaintively, innocently. "You know how much I have missed you." The drink makes him lose his bitterness and the harshness he has acquired over those long lonely years and for a long breathless moment she can only see the young Comte she has married.

She does come closer, entranced, drawn in by his deep blue eyes that in spite of the drink remain beautiful to her. And then, just before their lips touch, he falls back on his bed, slurring heavily: "Beautiful Anne…"

And then he is gone, lost to unconscious drunkenness. She cries then and it feels as if her heart is breaking anew each time she draws a breath.

"I hate you," she cries and she wets his face with her tears. "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you…"

And the morning comes, it always does, and Athos wakes up to find tears on his face.

He touches his face.

"Anne," he whispers, but she is not there. And a ghost does not cry.

-Fin-

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 _Thank you for feedback!_

 _-Sachita_


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